


Scar Upon My Soul

by SerendipityDreamer



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Crushes, M/M, Secret Crush, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Tumblr Prompt, cullrian - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-21 18:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11949681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerendipityDreamer/pseuds/SerendipityDreamer
Summary: Soul marks aren’t always in a place you expect them to be. The same rule applies to soul mates. They aren’t always who you expect them to be.





	Scar Upon My Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from dapromptexchange on Tumblr: 
> 
> Soul marks are treated with the utmost privacy in Tevinter. Most people don't even want to find their Soulmate, lest they be matched with someone of a lower class or worse. Dorian guards his mark like everyone else until he comes South where everyone seems to flaunt their mark, actively looking for their other half. And that's when he sees the match to his mark, branded upon the skin of someone he would have never expected.

_“Loyalty to a petrified opinion never yet broke a chain or freed a human soul”_

Mark Twain

* * *

 

Dorian remembers being young. He remembers being small for his age and wearing fine linen robes that did not quite yet fit him. He remembers spending his mornings exploring the gardens and his afternoons in the library with his nose buried in books. He remembers his mother as a hard woman with soft hands whose eyes never betrayed any emotions. He remembers his father as a thoughtful man who smiled and laughed and told him how proud he was of him.

Dorian remembers being happy, at least most of the time.

But what Dorian remembers most vividly is waking up in the middle of the night with a scream, clutching at his chest and crying as he felt his skin burning over his heart.

He remembers his mother running in, and he did not think about why she might be awake and wandering the halls in the middle of the night. He lets her undo his pajamas to search for the source of his pain, and her fingers hesitate over a swirling golden sun that has risen like a scar upon his skin.

His mother speaks softly, softer than he has ever heard her speak, softer than she will ever speak again. She tells him about soul marks and their history, of why they are symbols of an archaic need to find a soul mate when good breeding should take precedent. Dorian sees something weary in her eyes, as if she’s been rehearsing these words in her head for a long time, as if it’s something she’s resigned herself to believing.

“Your soul mark is yours and yours alone,” he remembers his mother telling him, “It is something very private that you won’t have to worry about it. Love isn’t real.”

It is sad, Dorian thinks, that he had trusted his mother so completely on the matter. It is even more sad that it was one of the kindest things she had said to him before she passed.

Soul marks are not a point of conversation in Tevinter, especially not in the upper echelons of society. Soul marks are hidden beneath lavish clothes and expensive makeup. Some truly desperate individuals endeavor to use magic to remove the mark, although the results are rather painful and largely inconclusive. Soul marks are a nuisance that represent nothing more than weakness. If someone bears their soul mark, it means they are willing to find their soulmate, whom could be no one more than a lowly Soporati.

_Vere Cundiaam_. It is an old Tevene phrase that is spat in disgust at the thought of a soul mark. Shame of my heart.

Dorian does not think about his soul mark for a long time. Its existence is only apparent when he sees it in his reflection in the mirror when he gets dressed in the morning. His fingers ghost over the mark when he bathes in the evening, feeling how it rises from his skin and hums with a magical warmth. He sees it shimmer in the candlelight that flickers next to his bedside and he sees it glow in the morning with the sun that shines through his windows. His soul mark is something that lives on the periphery of Dorian’s life. It does not bother him in anyway. It does not affect his studies as a mage, and he knows that it will not affect his future in any way. He is an Altus, after all, and fine breeding is expected of him. His soul mark will not change that.

It isn’t until Dorian begins finds himself attracted to other men that he starts thinking about his soul mark again.

It becomes apparent when he begins to have sex, which requires the distinct act of stripping off one’s clothes. Dorian would be blind not to notice the way the eyes of his lovers flick nervously over his chest; he would be a fool not to realize that they avoid touching his mark if it can be helped. These men do not want to see Dorian’s soul mark, because it reminds them that he is more than just stress relief, but a man who could bear the same mark as the one they have spent so long ignoring themselves.

On one such night, Dorian quietly slips out the silken bed he finds himself in. He takes care not to wake the bearded man lying next to him. The bearded man bore his soul mark on the inside of his wrist, a small black swirling thing that is reminiscent of a dragon. Dorian hadn't dared to look at it until after the man had fallen asleep, and even then he didn’t dare to get to close enough to truly study it.

As Dorian padded across the floor of the bedroom and towards the adjoining bathroom, he conjured up a faint ball of light in his hands to illuminate his path. It wouldn’t do to trip and hurt himself in the dark, and he didn’t want his host to kick him out prematurely. Dorian wasn’t fond of the idea of stumbling back home in the middle of the night and having to explain to his father the state of his (un)dress.

In the bathroom, Dorian stepped up to the mirror and held one hand out to hold the light while the other settled on his chest, his fingers prodding gently at his soul mark. It was rare for a soul mark to take on any kind of color, but gold was particularly unique. Dorian had read somewhere in an old text that golden soul marks were a sign of true devotion, of a love that ran deeply in the hearts of those who bore it. It all sounded like wishful thinking at best, and foolish fancy at worst.

But Dorian couldn’t help but imagine the person who bore the same mark that had emblazoned itself on his chest. He imagined a Soparati nervously pulling on a glove to cover the sun on the back of his hand, an Elvhen servant hastily caking the mark with flour and paste to appease his masters, an Altus who grew a beard to hide the mark on his jaw.

The bearded man had been wishful thinking on Dorian’s part. He would admit that.

Yet, as desperately as Dorian tried to forget his mark, as much as he wanted to appease his father and marry whatever unfortunate woman that became his betrothed, Dorian was drawn back to secret trysts with uncaring men and the damn golden sun that shone on his chest.

Dorian couldn’t see himself as that kind of man. He hoped that his soul mate might be.

* * *

There were many things about the south that shocked Dorian. Yes, it was cold and damp nearly all of the time, and yes the average people were poor and crude, but what bothered Dorian most were the ways that people bore their soul marks openly and shamelessly.

Dorian had walked past a young woman with the mark of a black thorny vine curled on her cheek, and she never flinched or appeared nervous when someone looked at it or made a remark. Another man Dorian had seen had had a portion of his shirt cut out so that the mark of a blue flame could be seen by any curious onlookers. It seemed that everywhere Dorian looked there was a soul mark on display. People even spoke openly of soul marks, of their colors and their meanings and the latest gossip on who was looking for their soulmate or what child had just received their mark. Dorian couldn’t decide if he found it charming or pitiful, that these people believed that true love could really exist in this world, especially one now threatened by the darkspawn.

And yet at night in the rooms he rents in taverns and inns along the road, Dorian’s gaze is drawn back to blazing sun on his chest. He is drawn back to that foolish fancy and wishful thinking.

He isn’t sure when it happens, but Dorian stops hating his soul mark. He does not talk about it, nor does he offer to show it to nosy civilians, but he stops seeing it as the hateful curse he’s always known it as. By the time Dorian encounters the Inquisition, he is wearing a tunic that bears his left shoulder and allows the tips of the golden tendrils of the sun to peek out. He is far from flaunting his mark about and searching for his soulmate, but it is the first time that Dorian has felt comfortable in his own skin in a very long time. Dorian is wary to call this feeling happiness, but he is most certainly content with the life he now leads.

In the Inquisition, Dorian has the pleasure of being left to his own devices to perform his own research. This becomes particularly true once the Inquisition relocates itself to Skyhold. Dorian has an entire library at his fingertips, and while the selection is somewhat lacking, there are men and women who value his contributions to the fight against Corypheus. They are willing to track down any texts that the library doesn’t have and that Dorian deems necessary to his research; they are willing to indulge his eccentricities as a Tevinter mage, insofar as it doesn’t clash too harshly with their southern sensibilities. Dorian is a free man in charge of his own free time, and despite the threat of death and devastation looming over the world, everything is just peachy.

Of course, that’s when everything begins to go sideways.

It had all started insignificantly enough. Dorian had been looking for a particularly old text, a collection of poems about the darkspawn. He wasn’t sure what the book would have on Corypheus, but he was rather interested in what sort of context the poems might provide on past Blights compared to the situation at hand. When he had learned that the text happened to be in Cullen’s possession, Dorian had decided to make the trip to the Commander’s office himself. It would get him out of the dusty library at the very least.

Cullen and Dorian had managed, somehow, to become something more than acquaintances and slightly less than friends. Companions, perhaps, if one was being charitable with the definition. Cullen appreciated Dorian’s knowledge and power as a mage, albeit with a healthy amount of wariness. Dorian enjoyed Cullen’s honesty in sharing his opinion, although he was a bit critical of the man’s leanings towards steadfast belief in authority.

Both men, however, enjoyed their weekly chess matches immensely. They were equally matched in strategy, with Cullen favoring defensive tactics while Dorian favored a (cheating) offensive. It was common ground for the both of them, and it was an arrangement that allowed them both to disconnect from their responsibilities within the Inquisition.

But Dorian was hesitant to call it friendship. Cullen was a reserved individual, and Dorian hardly ever saw the man outside of his office or the training yard. Cullen often only exchanged brief hellos with Dorian in the hallways if they passed, and he usually sent a messenger over to confirm the day for their chess matches. It was all rather formalized, and it felt more like a symbiotic relationship than a true friendship in any sense of the word. True friendship may have been rare and fleeting in Tevinter, but Dorian knew that it had to be more than what Cullen was offering.

Although Dorian was fairly sure that Cullen was not aware that he was offering more than his companionable kindness, but his good looks as well.

It was easy to admire the Commander for his looks, with his blond hair and doleful eyes and that rugged looking scar on his upper lip. Dorian was used to seeing more well-groomed and meticulous men, but there was something else about Cullen. Perhaps it was the sincerity in his voice, the kindness in his smile, or the weariness in his eyes that came from worrying too much about others and not enough about himself.

Dorian always had a soft heart for a good-looking man with an air of tenderness about him. But for the Inquisition’s dear Commander? That was just foolishness.

This was the state that Dorian found himself in, not quite friends with Cullen but interested in something dangerously more, when he made his way to the Commander’s office. Dorian had sent a messenger ahead with a note to let Cullen know that he would be stopping by, and he had simply responded with the time that Dorian should arrive. It was simple enough, but it reminded Dorian of secret arrangements with men for much more dubious interactions.

Foolishness. Utter foolishness.

Dorian pushed such thoughts out of his mind and brought his hand up instead to knock on the wooden door to Cullen’s office. He would maintain an air of professionalism about all of this. It hadn’t been an issue yet, and it certainly wouldn’t become one now. When he heard Cullen call for him to come in, Dorian put on a teasing smirk as he swept into the room with one arm outstretched and the other holding open the door.

“The highlight of your afternoon has arrived,” Dorian said, but he could see the overwhelmed look in Cullen’s eyes and the tired lines that were etched into his forehead.

“Ah, Dorian. Good,” Cullen said, rising up from his seat at his desk. Even as his shoulders slumped, his voice did not betray the exhaustion he must surely feel. “I was hoping you would be arriving soon. I apologize for the state of my office. Things are....busy.”

Busy was an understatement. The Inquisition had recruited a veritable army of mages from Redcliffe just before the Inquisition had relocated to Skyhold, and it was Cullen’s duty to train these mages and to handle any animosity dealt towards them. And that was on top of his other duties as Commander of the Inquisition’s armies and acting as advisor to the Inquisitor herself.

“I can forgive a bit of untidiness just to have a moment of your time,” Dorian mused, shutting the door behind him and watching as Cullen allowed himself a brief moment to relax. He could see the muscles in Cullen’s jaw slacken, but a line of tension still lingered in his shoulders.

“You’re too kind,” Cullen replied, meeting Dorian’s gaze fleetingly before walking towards the bookcase behind his desk, “But you’re not just here for small talk. What was the book you wanted again?”

Dorian hummed and walked towards Cullen’s desk, watching the blond man scan the bookshelves for a moment. The Commander’s lower lip was between his teeth and his brow was furrowed in thought. Dorian hated that he had seen it, and that it created a flutter of nerves in his chest. “Are you always so straight to business?” Dorian asked with little hesitation, pushing down any other thoughts that didn’t relate to the matter at hand. “No exchanging pleasantries? No food and wine to offer me? How rude.”

Cullen turned his head towards Dorian, but his eyes were owlish as he spoke, “I certainly didn’t mean to be rude. I do apologize if I am.” He turned fully then, leather-bound tome clutched in his hand, and held it out to Dorian, “I’ve never been good with courtly pleasantries, but someone like yourself is practically born with such charisma.”

“Oh, you flatter me, Commander,” Dorian replied, offering a winning smile and calming the flutter in his heart as he grabbed the book from Cullen’s hand. “With looks like yours, you hardly have to be pleasant to win the hearts of a noble court.”

Dorian watched as the slightest of blush crept onto Cullen’s cheeks, but the man smiled and laughed off Dorian’s comment quickly enough. “Perhaps you could offer me lesson in charming foreign dignitaries,” he said with some humility, “I will need the skill soon enough in Halamshiral.”

“It’s not a skill easily taught,” Dorian mused, letting his eyes study Cullen’s body up and down with a smirk tugging at corner of his lips, “But you have a natural talent for it. You hardly need many lessons.”

Cullen laughed then, something genuine and soft that caught Dorian off-guard, “I guarantee you’ll change your mind once you see me on the ballroom floor. Much more of a natural disaster than a talent.”

Flirting was a familiar game to Dorian. It was a style of conversation that came easily to him, but flirting with Cullen was something terrifyingly close to his true emotions. When it came to fight or flight, Dorian had always been a fighter on the battlefield. Yet when it came to moments like this with men he couldn’t have, it was easier to get out before it got messy.

Dorian smiled and laughed in a way that was courteous, even shaking his head good naturedly, but he drew the book carefully to his chest and gestured towards the door with his free hand. “I suppose I’ll leave you to the rest of your daily drudgery,” Dorian said, “Too much responsibility is not good for my youthful charming looks.”

Cullen chuckled and brought his hand up to the nape of his neck, scratching idly at the skin there in a gesture Dorian knew must be familiar to him. “Yes, I suppose we can’t all drink fine wine and read books all day, can we?”

“It’s a burden I bear,” Dorian mused, watching as Cullen moved around his desk and towards the door to hold it open for Dorian to leave. It was courteous, a fine display of politeness that Dorian wondered if Cullen had learned from his parents or from the Templars.

As Cullen approached, Dorian realized that the man was not wearing the hideous fur monster around his neck. Dorian didn’t care how warm it might be, it was a travesty to behold. He was surprised he hadn’t realized it earlier, but Dorian allowed himself a moment to truly study the man in front of him.

Without the fur collar, Cullen looked smaller. Yet there was a broadness to the Commander’s shoulders that couldn’t be seen beneath the fur, born of years or training and hard work. Dorian’s eyes roamed further, studying the strong lines of Cullen’s jaw and the strength in his neck before his gaze fell to the nape of Cullen’s neck. It was where the man had so absentmindedly scratched before, the skin fleshy and pink surrounding the imprint that was there. A soul mark.

A swirling golden sun.

Dorian could feel his heartbeat in the back of his throat and his fingertips thrum with nervous energy. He knew that mark that swirled across his own chest and mocked him in his own reflection, but now it was staring back at him from Cullen’s neck.

_A man of devotion and of deep seated love._

_Vere Cundiaam._

“Are you free at tomorrow afternoon for chess?”

The question pulled Dorian back to reality, but panic was still pounding in his chest and bile was rising in his throat. Dorian, however, had learned to stop fear from showing in his features long ago, and he offered Cullen a smile and a calm voice of confidence, “I was actually hoping to drink wine and read books, but I suppose I can make some time to beat you in a few games.”

“I suppose we’ll have to see,” Cullen replied, and Dorian physically ached at the genuine warmth in his voice. “I’ll send a messenger tomorrow morning. But for now, farewell, Dorian.”

Without any more pomp or circumstance, Dorian walked out of Cullen’s office and kept walking even as the door shut behind him. He focused on the pounding of his boots against the stone, clenched his jaw as he walked past Varric without a word and brushed past Solas on the stairs. Dorian didn’t stop moving until he was safely ensconced in his private corner of Skyhold, surrounded by familiar books and able to be alone with his own thoughts. Cullen Rutherford was his soul mate. The man who commands armies, advises the Inquisitor, and is a former Chantry templar, was his soul mate. Sideways was an understatement. Everything in Dorian’s life was absolutely upside down.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a fake ass who writes this prompt so fast just to enter a contest and ignores the other fics I'm working on. But I hope this is good because I love Cullrian but never know how to write it. All comments and kudos are super welcome!
> 
> Yours till the fidget spins,  
> SerendipityDreamer
> 
> (edit: 10.7.18, sometimes I'm a fake ass who also decides to write more to this fic and goes back and does edits)


End file.
